


Of Fur And Friendship

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Series: Athos, Animals, And Alliteration [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:56:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1318882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Porthos discovers what has triggered Athos's latest bout of melancholy, he endeavours to help in whatever way he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Fur And Friendship

**Author's Note:**

> I may have borrowed a certain feline to create some pre-slash fluff to entertain myself during a very dull meeting at work...

Watching d’Artagnan spar with Athos it was obvious the young Gascon was steadily improving, constantly building on those natural skills he had exhibited on their first encounter. But Porthos’s attention was more drawn to the other duelist; while Athos displayed the same adroitness with a sword as he always did, he seemed to be merely going through the motions, his mind elsewhere.

Despite his distraction, he nevertheless bested d’Artagnan, and stepped aside to let Aramis take his place.

“He nearly had you that time,” Porthos quipped as Athos propped himself against the wall beside him. Athos gave a vague hum of agreement, but it was obvious he hadn’t really heard. Frowning, Porthos wanted to ask what was plaguing him, but knew that would be a vain venture; the man could be stubbornly taciturn at the best of times, and it was usually best to let him work through his melancholy, offering whatever support he would accept.

But the despondent, distracted mood that assailed Athos showed no signs of abating, even after several days, and when their leader excused himself from their shared meal one evening, Porthos had to voice his concern.

“Do either of you know what’s bothering him?”

D’Artagnan cast a worried look in the direction Athos had disappeared in, while Aramis gave a sad, humourless smile.

“I believe his cat is missing.”

“His _cat_?” Porthos exclaimed, not quite managing to correlate a missing cat with Athos’s despondency. “Can’t he just get another one?”

Both Aramis and d’Artagnan gaped at him, aghast, as if he had just uttered some unforgivable blasphemy.

“She can’t be replaced as easily as a worn pair of boots,” Aramis expounded. “He would never admit it, but Athos loves that cat.”

Porthos raised an eyebrow as he stared thoughtfully after his friend. While he might not fully comprehend just how a cat could affect a man so profoundly, he knew he had to do something to help; seeing Athos so downcast left an odd hollow feeling in his chest.

With no better idea of how to commence a search for a cat, Porthos appropriated the assistance of a gang of young children with the help of a few sous and the promise of more should the animal be found. The children were surprisingly enthusiastic about their quest, although Porthos knew their attention would likely wane if the search produced no results within a short time. He didn’t hold out much hope of receiving good news, but he was nevertheless going to try.

Two nights later, he was surprised by a knock at his door. A bedraggled child informed him she had found the cat and that he should accompany her with the greatest haste. Glancing out past her at the pouring rain, Porthos grimaced, but grabbed his hat and cloak without a second thought.

He was led through a maze of narrow alleys slick with rain to a rather insalubrious corner of the city and silently pointed toward a set of steps that descended to a worn door – ostensibly the entry to some kind of storage cellar. Whatever purpose the area served, it was currently empty save a growing puddle of rainwater.

“There’s nothin’ here.” Porthos was becoming wetter with every second he remained outside, and he turned a frustrated scowl on the young girl. The child raised a finger to her lips and looked at him, wide eyes full of a silent appeal to listen. They were rewarded moments later by a plaintive cry.

Realisation dawned, and Porthos hurried down the steps. Finding the door jammed shut, he forced it with his shoulder until it scraped open a couple of inches, and a dark shape dashed past his ankle in a blur.

“Hey!” he cried, as if that might stop the cat in its tracks, and ran back up the steps, cursing himself for being so stupid as to let the damn thing get away. He was in such a rush that he almost collided with the girl. Stumbling back a step, he saw that the child’s thin arms were wrapped tightly around the wet, wriggling cat.

Grinning with grateful astonishment at his good fortune, he dug out all the coins he had on him and swapped them for the animal. The girl sketched a quick curtsy and ran off, not at all bothered by the rain that splashed up her legs.

Porthos, on the other hand, could feel the rain working its way down his neck in cold trails, but even this discomfort couldn’t detract from his feeling of triumph, and he carried the cat all the way back to Athos’s lodgings.

His arms laden with their burden, Porthos kicked the door with the toe of his boot and had to wait, raindrops dripping from the brim of his hat and continuing their journey under his collar, until the door finally swung open.

Athos, framed in the doorway, stared, and parted his lips as if to ask what brought Porthos to his door, but before he could form the words his gaze dropped to the wet bundle in his comrade’s arms and blinked with tentative hope.

“You found her.”

Porthos hitched a shoulder in a shrug that belied the sudden spark of happiness he felt at the stunned delight he heard in Athos’s voice. “Couldn’t stand seein’ you look so damn miserable.” He held the cat out to Athos who gently gathered it into his arms and carried it over to the fire, picking up a blanket on the way.

Porthos pushed the door shut to keep the draught out and tugged off his dripping hat as Athos knelt in front of the fire and began to rub the animal’s fur dry with the blanket. The cat squirmed, but lacked the energy to make good on its escape attempt and resigned itself to the attention.

Although he was soaked through almost to the skin, Porthos’s discomfort eased a little as witnessed the change that came over Athos; there was the hint of a smile as he mumbled quiet words of reassurance to the cat and his whole posture had relaxed, a marked difference to the apprehensive tension that had gripped him over the past few days.

Satisfied that he had dried the worst of the water from the cat’s pelt, Athos fetched a dry blanket, a small dish of water, and a handful of scraps from a plate that held the remains of his supper. Setting them all down beside the animal, Athos turned his attention back to his friend.

“Thank you.” They were two simple words, but they were delivered with a heartfelt gratitude that warmed Porthos’s cold bones. He dipped his head in acknowledgement; his reward was seeing that look of happiness on Athos’s face.

“I’ll leave you to welcome her home.” Porthos replaced his hat with a grimace as a few more raindrops shook themselves free.

“You can’t go back out into that terrible weather.”

“I’m already wet.”

“Stay here and dry off by the fire.” Porthos knew Athos would never admit it, but he nevertheless recognised the man’s desire for company. It was, moreover, a welcome offer; the thought of heading back out into the rain held little appeal. By way of acceptance, Porthos deposited his hat beside the fire with a grateful smile.

At Athos’s insistence, he also removed his boots, cloak, and doublet, until he was dressed in only his breeches and undershirt. They, too, were damp, but manageably so. Athos laid the wet clothing where it would benefit from the heat of the fire and bade him sit on the floor before the hearth as he angled a chaise to act as a backrest and poured him a cup of wine from a bottle that was already half empty.

“I don’t know how to suitably thank you,” Athos said as he joined Porthos on the floor, the bottle with the remaining wine in his hand.

“This is enough.” Porthos indicated the wine and the fire with a tilt of his wrist. “I could see how much you were missing her.”

“You must think me a sentimental fool.” Athos’s gaze was on the cat who, having recovered some of her strength now she had warmed up, was endeavouring to lick every last drop of water from her fur.

“I did,” Porthos confessed. “But I think perhaps I understand now.” Although only an animal, the cat obviously provided Athos some measure of joy and companionship of the kind that was simple, uncomplicated, and he had felt her loss as keenly as he would that of a friend. And friendship was something Porthos certainly understood.

A comfortable silence descended on the small room, and it was the cat who stirred first, wandering around to reassess her surroundings, an exploration that brought her to Porthos’s side. After an inquisitive sniff, she stepped up onto his lap.

“What’s she doin’?” Porthos asked, mildly alarmed but trying not to spook the creature.

“She’s looking for somewhere warm to sleep,” Athos said, amusement evident in his voice. “She evidently likes you.”

“I don’t much like where her claws are heading.”

“She’s very gentle. Just stay still.”

Porthos huffed, unconvinced, but sat still while the cat padded in a circle before curling herself into a tight ball on his thighs, tucking her tail over her nose and paws.

Athos moved closer to smooth his fingers through the cat’s fur, fluffy now that it was dry.

“What’s her name?”

Athos’s hand stilled for a second. “She doesn’t have one. I thought, wrongly as it turns out, that not giving her a name would prevent me growing too attached.”

“Not your most successful tactic,” Porthos said with a wry smile. “Since it clearly failed, perhaps you should give her one now.”

“I think _you_ have earned that privilege.”

“Me?” Porthos blinked in surprise. All he had done was find the poor thing. “Considering her habit of runnin’ off and getting into trouble, I think d’Artagnan would be a suitable name.”

“I doubt our young friend would see that as much of a compliment.” Although Porthos couldn’t see his face, Athos’s smile was evident in his voice.

“Maybe not.” He fell silent as he gave the matter more serious consideration, thinking that Athos would have been better off asking Aramis. “What about Aurore?”

Athos glanced at him, an eyebrow raised in surprise. Porthos, equally as unsure where that flash of poetic inspiration had issued from, grimaced at what he was sure was an awful name for a cat.

Looking back down at the sleeping cat, Athos mulled the name over. “I like it,” he decided; Porthos felt inordinately pleased at having been able to oblige. The companionable silence returned, and Porthos gradually felt himself begin to warm up, the fire driving away the damp that still clung to his skin.

Unaware that he had been drifting off into a comfortable doze, Porthos stirred as Athos’s hand slipped from the cat’s back and came to rest on his thigh. He felt the weight of his friend’s head against his shoulder, and realised that Athos had also given in to sleep. Overcome with the need to offer comfort to the man whose stoic silence often hid a private storm, Porthos pressed his cheek to Athos’s hair.

Fingers gently squeezed his thigh in a response that might have been either an unconscious reflex or deliberate acknowledgement, but neither man moved. Even when Porthos began to lose the feeling in his toes, and knowing they would both later regret remaining on the hard floor so long, he was loath to disturb either man or beast.

Athos seemed to draw as much tranquility from his presence as that of the cat, and Porthos realised that the hollow feeling that had been bothering him had been successfully banished by their shared contentment.


End file.
